


A Vulture If You Will

by deathwailart



Category: Original Work
Genre: Body Horror, Cannibalism, Disturbing Themes, Dragons, Gen, Gore, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-09
Updated: 2013-07-09
Packaged: 2017-12-18 04:36:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/875707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deathwailart/pseuds/deathwailart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She coughs up human hair, eyes and nails and tells no one and thinks she's going mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Vulture If You Will

It's an ache in her temples, pulses radiating out across her skull and down her neck, down her shoulders that she holds tight even though she knows that's only going to make it worse; in the end it does, twin aches under her shoulder blades that flare white-hot when she stretches or raises her arms. She can't sleep comfortably. The skin of her back too sensitive, feels stretched tight over her bones, the slightest touch of even her hair at her temples has her gritting her teeth. There's a pain in her gut, visceral as a menstrual cramp, ball of hair snarled low in her belly, makes it hard to breathe. She hunches and the pain crawls up and down, manifests in her ribs and sternum, twinges and sparks, the pop-crack of swollen cartilage sliding into place. When she does sleep, those fitful agonising hours, tossing and turning in a body that pulsates and throbs and feels like a mass of viscera spread open for the world to poke at, she coughs and coughs and coughs, great wet heaving things where blood and spit slick her chin. Trembling hands go to her mouth, fingers down her throat and she gags and _tugs_ and the pressure starts to disappear as she pulls, pulls, pulls and _retches_ and it all comes flooding out, black bile and hacked up bits of feather, bone and scales and she heaves and heaves until she wakes and claws at herself, raking her nails over her skin.  
  
She imagines bones bursting through her skin in time. Twisting and turning even under the groaning protestations of her body to examine herself from every angle in the mirror where she feels something beneath her shoulder blades, something that rubs and grinds and if she has dreams now where she is hacking and gagging but lifted up off the ground by bone branches then it's delirium and pain.  
  
She coughs up human hair, eyes and nails and tells no one and thinks she's going mad.  
  
The ache in her head blossoms behind her eyes. It feels like something is trying to force them out, pinprick flashes and the starburst of rubbing eyes too hard and she imagines those bone branches, white and glistening through popping through where her eyes were. Another sprouting from her belly and up her throat, wet clumps of hair for leaves.  
  
She claws at her skin, her ribs creak, the cradle of her hips feels heavy and her stomach is so empty because everything she tries to touch and eat makes her heave except the red meat, still pink in the middle. And then red and bloody when she cuts into it. And then after that cold and raw and sweet on her tongue and it's all she eats, gorges until her stomach hurts, that good kind of ache and she curls in and around herself to sleep and snakes slither from her empty eyes and a bird flies out of her throat. It pecks one snake to death as the other sinks its fangs deep and when she wakes again she wakes screaming and howling, a high reedy whine in when she inhales and a low ragged moan when she exhales. Her feet kick against the floor and she drags her hands across her skull and to her temples, clawing away at them because she has to get it out, whatever it is it has to come out now now now because the pain is astounding, it's crippling and she feels the punch of her teeth sinking through her bottom lip. The blood coats her tongue, slides down her throat and it lets her breath, panting and scratching until she's forced up and over, onto her knees, chest and belly tight against her thighs as the sides of her skull crack, echoing like gunshots.  
  
Blood drips onto the floor as she lets shaking tentative fingers explore. Time has no meaning but though her head feels heavier, some of the pain is gone, the pressure and she reaches up to find the horns that spiral out from her temples, curving down to her jaw then curving in so she can see them from the corner of her eyes. She traces over each bump, up to where the skin of her temples is swollen and sore but she can't resist pressing down on it to feel the flare of pain, fresh bruise thump, sees the sparks behind her eyes. Eventually she gathers herself up and into the shower to wash away the blood that's clotting in her hair, so careful, aware of her neck, how heavy her head feels now. Queen of bone and hair, crown splitting her skull and she smiles at her reflection when she's done, her puffy ragged lips and wet hair tangled around the horns, a rich dark brown.  
  
The hunger abates for a time but then she wants more. She finds herself nibbling her own fingers, not hard enough to break the skin but close, blunt indentations and she vomits up fingers and hunks of flesh in the dreams. No more eyes popping out but the pain in her back returns and in the waking hours she has to crawl, hand and foot, keens like a wounded animal as her belly growls and complains. She's so hot, she's on fire, sweating so badly she slips and shivers and crawls into the shower to hide and has waking fever dreams, cold tiles against fevered skin as she presses back against the wall as though trying to keep something forced in, whatever it is beneath her skin. Skin that sloughs free. Her skin was so smooth once but now it feels scaly and flaky, rough and wrong under exploring fingers but she can't cover up, it hurts too much and it falls away in lumps and chunks and she thinks of her dream snakes that crawled out her eye sockets and she would vomit but her belly is empty. Her bottom lip doesn't heal. She worries at it. She gnaws. She picks. She scrapes. She drags her nails across the wounds on her temples that try to heal and scar and licks the blood from under them and she looks at her fingers again and wonders how much pressure, how much it might hurt but somehow she knows that won't satisfy the hunger coiling in her.  
  
She hasn't left the house. How can she? People don't just sprout horns, not like this. People don't do this and she is so distinctly normal, _was_ , so painfully average and non-descript and now she has horns and wants iron and salt on her tongue and scrapes at her arms and legs and sides to escape a body that's too small and too hot. No more sleep, just the passage of time and she slinks out when it's cool, goes barefoot to flex her toes into the dirt, the grass scorched by summer sun, the leaves wilting on the branches as she tilts up her head to enjoy the way the balmy night air caresses her skin. Every sound is magnified but for days it's just been the thump of her own heart and her own animal sounds, the patter of the shower, the clack of her teeth and the smack of her lips. It's quiet and still until there's another pulse, faster than hers and the rush of blood and her brain clicks and her stomach rumbles and before she knows it she's lunging, she's running fast and hard, moving effortlessly before there's a crunch of bone that should be sickening but isn't.  
  
It's the first time she kills. Blood roaring in her ears like an angry river, threatening to sweep her away, gushing around her the way the blood had over her teeth and fingers, bubbling up beneath her lips. Then the calm settles, bone deep, whispering ugly promises. "Won't ever be so hard again, you've got this, you've got this."  
  
She goes home without remembering, leaves bloody footprints in the grass, leaves the body or more aptly the remains where they lay, gnawed and burned, a ruin of a carcass until the blood dries and the trails grows cold for any who try to follow. She scrubs at her hands hard, the water scalding or is that just her skin now? She scrubs beneath her nails hard enough to abrade the skin, bleeding again and swallows convulsively, tongue tracing the insides of her mouth to capture the taste of it. She clips her nails right back anyway. She remembers how they tore, how fingers became talons, how she was a wild beast and what frightens her isn't the frenzy, what frightens her is the enjoyment, the satisfaction. Her belly is so full that her stomach is sickeningly distended and the pressure has returned but it feels good and she curls on the floor, rubs swollen overheated skin and sleeps with a carnivore's grin, arm tucked under a horn so she can curl on her side. She watches the sky turn from indigo to pink and red, orange staining the bottom of fat white clouds and curls up to sleep, warm and so full she might burst.  
  
That's only the first time she kills. Each time she feels stronger, faster. She's _flying_. Her horns are heavy and now her skin is splitting open, ragged around the edges but there isn't blood, there are scales, gleaming and glittering, rough and smooth and her nails grow on fingers and toes to be hard as diamond, jet black and so sharp she can cleave flesh from bone. Her teeth lengthen. So does her spine and she builds herself a nest of bones and anything bright and shiny enough to catch her eye, abandons her house to find a spot deep in the darkest part of the woods out back. The woods drew her here when she first moved, she remembers that, the mists that rolled into town, down off their backs, the fresh scent of damp earth, the birdsong. She finds herself a nice spot behind dead rotting trees and sleeps on her thrones of bones and sheds her old skin, stands taller and prouder and when her hands grab at the unsuspecting their flesh sizzles and bubbles as her talons puncture their skin, mouths open in a scream that never comes as her mouth opens so wide it should unhinge to clamp around their throats. She bites down and pulls it away, watches them convulse as she chews and feels their hot sticky blood drip down her bare body as she perches over them, devouring them bit by bit, savouring the crunch of bone as she licks and sucks to get to the marrow. She breathes out to cook the meat and eats her fill, dragging them back to her lair until she's done. Her hair is gone, she woke with it in her lap and now she braids the strands to wear jawbones around her neck and to weave bones around her head and to dangle more from her horns, a crown fit for a queen.  
  
At last her back splits open on either side, shoulders to above her hips and out unfold her wings, great and terrible, larger than she is. She doesn't scream, she doesn't cry or gnash her teeth and wail the way she did once, only sighs and stretches and feels the rush of heat spread throughout her limbs as she unfolds them and feels her scales reknit, lets them dry and grow strong then wraps them tight around herself, lips curling in her sleep. Dragon queen come to reign over them in a time with no knights or swords, sleeping so close, ready for the unwary to venture near.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Scavenger by Emilie Autumn


End file.
